In an old notebook I recently found this paragraph, which I would like to underline.
"I work until late at night, concentrating on an internal conflict that I find impossible to resolve. I still hope to be able to produce something good; but I need to receive a few "brilliant ideas". If they don't come, I'll have to put the work off for longer. I imagine that this is what's going to happen, because it isn't really a question of a few "brilliant ideas".
The fact is that nothing in our state of mind is ever clear, and our painting suffers from this lack of certainty. Sometimes I feel that the meaning of my work is exclusively connected to the production of a painting; to its continuous references and modifications; to small discoveries, like rafts to which a shipwrecked man clings, and which then sink to the depths, taking with them lines, colours and pseudo-meanings.
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